Scorpius Malfoy and the Blood Warriors
by Snuffy Livingston
Summary: First book of the planned septology. Scorpius's mother is brutally murdered, and it appears that he's next on the laundry list of the mysterious group calling themselves the Blood Warriors. First time posted!
1. I

_The Scorpius Malfoy Septology_

**Book One: Scorpius Malfoy and the Blood Warriors**

Snuffy Livingston

-- -- -- -- --

**Foreword:** I've been working on this story upwards of three months now, but this is the first time I've posted it anywhere on the Internet. The first thirty-or-so pages I have already written have gone under strenuous editing since I began it, to something almost meeting my insane standards.

I am putting this story of FFN for several reasons, primarily because I'd like to get more outside opinions before I post it on the website I've registered for it (scorpiusmalfoy dot inkvein dot net; it should be ready in a few more weeks if all goes well). That said, please don't hesitate to leave your feedback. In fact, I encourage it.

Thank you, and without further ado, chapter one.

-- -- -- -- --

The crowd that emerged from the shadowed entrance of Lord Randal's Theatre on the West End was small; most of the others from that night's showing of _Richard III_ were still inside, demanding their money back. Their lovely gowns and robes seemed out of place on the otherwise grubby, dirty streets, and, indeed, so did their harsh whispers and expressions of disgust.

Gabrielle Malfoy and her son, Scorpius, were among the last to leave. She was wrapped in a long fur coat, he in a thick cloak, and even the strange, pale glow they seemed to emanate did nothing to hide their displeasure.

"Well, _that_ was a phenomenal waste of time," Scorpius said sourly. "No wonder Father didn't want to come. We just wasted two-and-a-half hours of our lives!"

"It could have been worse," replied his mother reasonably, her sweet soprano voice slanted with a French accent.

"Could have been worse? How? Mother, Annabelle Devonshire's performance as Lady Anne was the biggest disappointment since the Crucifixion!"

Her bell-like laugh echoed off the high walls on the other side of the street, and as her son helped her into the floating hansom carriage waiting for them at the curb, the heels of her Italian shoes clicked on the cobblestone. "Oh, _mon petit,_" she said as she climbed inside, "we ruined you with Sir Walter Nottingham's performance in _L'école des femmes_ -- now you expect nothing less!"

Scorpius smirked as his mother vanished into the carriage. He climbed up next to her, and once he closed the door behind him, she rapped twice on the front wall, causing it to jerk forward and start off at breakneck speed down the street.

"Mother, any layman could tell you that the acting was shameful, the direction was horrifying, and the prop-master must have been drunk," said Scorpius. "William Shakespeare is rolling over in his grave."

She smiled and fondly rested a velvety hand on his shoulder. Gabrielle Malfoy was a beautiful woman, short in stature but with strikingly white-blonde hair that fell in neat, pin-straight tresses to her waist. Not unlike his mother, Scorpius was petite, slender and very blond, though his pointed chin and aristocratic nose were doubtlessly traits acquired from his father. Despite their physical differences, however, they both seemed to radiate a certain glow, which became all the more apparent in the shadows of their hansom carriage.

"We need to take you down to the _Champs aux Sorcières_ tomorrow to get started on your school shopping," said his mother distractedly after a few seconds of silence. "A stitch in time, as they say..."

"The _Champs aux Sorcières_?" Scorpius repeated, an eyebrow raised incredulously. "Really, Mother, I thought it was certain that I would be attending Hogwarts now, or has that changed yet again?"

She gave a pretty sigh, as if she'd just been informed that the garden party had been cancelled due to inclement weather.

"I admit," she said, "your father has been most steadfast in his preference to send you there. But I still think your education would be better at Beauxbatons, if only because you'd be taught in your mother tongue."

"God, not this argument again," Scorpius mumbled, slouching back against his seat.

"Well, darling, if you merely had an _opinion_--"

"If I had an opinion, our household would become ground zero for the next Great War," he interrupted pointedly. "Besides, it makes little difference to me. Both schools have excellent reputations and alumni."

"So very unbiased," his mother said. "That sort of impartiality will get you into trouble these days, _chéri_."

Before he even had the chance to reply, the carriage came to a sudden, grinding halt, sending both of them toppling forward. Gabrielle managed to catch her son with an arm across his chest before he hit the front wall.

"What the _devil_ is going on?" he demanded as he regained his posture.

"It's far too early for us to be home already--" his mother began.

"Department of the Magical Interior! Get out of the carriage!"

His mother's blue eyes went wide. "Department of the Magical--?"

"_Get out of the carriage!!_" repeated the voice, louder and with more force.

Scorpius leaned across his mother's lap and pulled back the curtain drawn tight across the window of the carriage door, only to find a very large and hairy man on the other side pointing his wand directly at them.

"Good Lord," he said under his breath.

"I'm summoning your father," she whispered, shoving a hand into her coat to pull out her wand, which she gave a subtle flick out of the man's line of vision.

"Get out of that carriage or I will be forced to stun you both!" he barked.

Scorpius looked anxiously to his mother. "Do you suppose this could be about--?"

"_Je n'ai aucune idée, mon enfant,_" she replied. "_Faisons comme il veut pour le moment._"

Her response had Scorpius worried. She only used full French (while in England, at least) when she was very distressed. He swallowed and opened the door a few feet, peering out.

"What's this about?" he asked, the confidence in his voice betraying his desire to slam the door in his face and charm the carriage to take off again.

"Step out of the carriage slowly," said the man, his wand still trained directly between Scorpius's eyes, "and no one will be harmed."

"What seems to be the problem, officer?" she asked in a shaking voice.

"Gabrielle Malfoy?" he asked sharply, his wand unmoving.

"I, uh-- yes, but--"

"The Department of the Magical Interior has reason to believe that you and your son--" (he nodded shortly at Scorpius) "--have been avoiding registration with the Sentient Nonhuman Magical Creatures Board and as you know--"

"Oh, for the love of God, man!" Scorpius began.

"--all creatures such as yourself are to be registered, lest they face jailtime in Azkaban for insubordination."

"To hell with the Sentient Nonhuman Magical Creatures Board," Scorpius snapped. "You have been doing all but stalk us, and every time we tell you the same thing: my mother is only one-fourth Veela, and myself only one-eighth. You can't _possibly_ want us to register as 'nonhuman'! We're no more nonhuman than you!"

"Step out of the carriage," repeated the man, his firm tone leaving no room for argument.

Scorpius was more than willing to fight this tooth and nail, but his mother's gentle hand on his back made him think twice.

"Please, _chéri_," she said pleadingly, "we don't want to cause any trouble."

But Scorpius _did_ want to cause trouble. This wasn't the first time that the Department of the Magical Interior had harassed them about getting registered with the board -- at first, they hadn't done it on principal, since both his parents had lived through the Great War and knew that nonhuman registration was barely a step above the Muggle-Born registration -- but when they came knocking, his father had been forced to use his power as a diplomat to send them off.

When they climbed off the carriage and onto the street, they found themselves standing on what appeared to be a long and lonely dirt road. Off in the distance, the rolling hills twinkled with the light from what Scorpius could only assume was Caben, a small wizarding village midway between the West End and his home. When he looked to either side of the carriage, he saw three other men besides the one with the wand pointed at his face, two of them short and one of them tall and wiry.

"Your wand, madam," said the tall one, striding over to her and holding out his hand expectantly.

"You aren't going to take my mother's wand!" Scorpius said, outraged, stepping in front of her.

In the half-light of the waning moon, Scorpius could see the man's face contort into a scowl. "You're a precocious one, aren't you?" he snarled. "I'll be taking _your_ wand, too."

"I haven't got a wand, you slack-jawed Neanderthal," he snapped back. "I'm underage. Clearly, you're as observant as you are polite."

"Scorpius, please," his mother begged softly, pushing past him, her wand in hand. "I'm sorry; my son is quite intelligent, but his manners are fleeting."

"You don't have to apologise to these great lummoxes, mother," said Scorpius firmly. "If anyone should be apologising, it ought to be them, for stopping us in the middle of God-only-knows-where and herding us like animals!"

Suddenly from behind them, there was a sharp cracking noise. Relief spread outwards from his stomach, and he turned to see his father, six feet of blond hair and seething anger, storming over to them.

"Father!"

"Oh, Draco, thank God--"

"Step away from my family this instant!" he barked. "You have harassed us long enough, and if you do not leave immediately, I will be placing a call to your supervisor at the Department of the Magical Interior."

"We're merely following orders, Mr. Malfoy," said the first man with a frown that made him look as if he'd just swallowed something very unpleasant.

"Orders! Orders, indeed," he seethed, "you of all people should know that the parameters set out by the Board of Sentient Nonhuman Magical Creatures only include those who are _full-blooded_ nonhumans. My wife and child hardly fall under that category!"

A cool wind rushed past them all, sending his father's cloak whipping and swaying in the breeze as he made it to his wife's side. Gabrielle fell against him, burying her face in his shoulder, and though he put a hand around her waist, his icy stare never left the other men.

"Not according to the newest addendum to those parameters," said the tall one with a rather sadistic smirk. Out from the inner pocket of his robe he produced a long, hickory wand, which he gave a casual flick. A parchment appeared out of thin air, long and tattered and yellow. His father bared his teeth and snatched it from where it was hovering a few feet from his face, reading it over quickly.

"As you can see," the first man said, not without a hint of smugness in his voice, "this extends the definition of nonhuman to anyone with one-sixteenth nonhuman and non-wizarding blood, which includes your wife and son."

Scorpius watched as his father crushed the parchment in one hand. It promptly disappeared, leaving nothing but a tightly clutched fist.

"This is absurd," his father hissed. "Are they not protected by the French government? Need I remind you that my wife is an attaché who should certainly be given some sort of immunity to this preposterous ruling--"

"Protocol is protocol," he said dismissively, rounding his beady eyes on Gabrielle. "Now, your pretty little self will be coming with me--"

Scorpius watched as his father stepped in front of her, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"So help me," he growled, "if you lay one finger on my wife, it will be the last thing you'll ever do."

His mother had shrunken away behind her husband's shoulder, and the man had stopped his approach -- Scorpius didn't realise why until he saw his father's wand out and pressed into the man's gut. There was a very long and tense pause in which no one moved or spoke.

Finally, his mother whispered, "_S'il te plaît, mon chèr, faisons ce qu'ils disent ; j'ai peur--_"

"Don't be afraid, my love -- it would be wasted on these incompetent fools. Scorpius,_viens ici_."

Smirking defiantly, Scorpius started forward and held onto his father's arm.

"Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure," he said in a voice that reminded Scorpius of chocolate-coated arsenic, "but I'm afraid that I will be visiting your department head before you take my family in for registration, as is outlined in my rights in Section C, paragraph IX of the Board's directive. I'll be on my way, and you _will_ be hearing from me soon."

With that, Scorpius felt the familiar tug of Apparation and they disappeared with a crack.


	2. II

"Unbelievable."

"Please, darling, try to eat; you haven't since _petit déjeuner_--"

"I couldn't possibly eat after the happenings this evening," he murmured bitterly. His father finally tossed down the roll of parchment, which he must have read over twenty times since they'd sat down to dinner, looking thoroughly disgusted. "I'd have far too much difficulty keeping it down."

Scorpius neatly speared a piece of his chicken cordon bleu and pulled it to his mouth. As usual, he took to listening to his parents' conversations rather than partaking in them. One could always learn more from listening and watching than speaking.

The dining room of their home was very small, very warm and very crimson, as per his mother's decorating tastes. Though well-furnished, the room remained only a subtle nod to their fortunes; it could easily be mistaken for any other middle-class home in Liverpool. Understatement, as his father always said, was everything.

He watched his mother reach across the table and stroke his hand lovingly.

"This whole situation is absurd," he said. "Nonhuman registration, indeed! It's _insulting_ is what it is, but leave it to the dunderheads at the Ministry to cover their own asses from the wrath of the paranoid, near-fascist elite who fund their rubbish."

"Maybe it would be better to go along with it, dear," his mother pleaded, "just this once."

His father gave her a meaningful look. "I will not have you registered and tagged like an animal," he told her softly. "You're a human, and so is Scorpius. I will not have you treated as anything less because of your blood."

She sighed, set her fork down across the corner of her plate and glanced through the window that overlooked the garden, saying nothing further. In fact, for a few long moments, no one said much of anything -- the only sound was the slow, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

"It's late," his father said finally. "Scorpius, you'd best finish your dinner and go to bed. We'll be shopping for your school things tomorrow."

"Of course, Father." Scorpius set his silverware across his near-empty plate and dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the napkin. "I'll see you both in the morning, then."

When he rose to his feet, his mother motioned him over with one hand. Obligingly, he headed over, and she leaned over to kiss his temple, causing his senses to be briefly overridden with her faint floral perfume.

"_Dors bien, chéri,_" she said fondly, stroking his hair with one hand. "Would you like to stop at the pet shop, perhaps? We always talked about getting you an owl, and now that you'll be going off to school, it would be practical."

Scorpius shrugged. He had never been very fond of animals, but he couldn't speak against the practicality of an owl. "I suppose," he said. The moment he pulled away from his mother, he found himself in his father's arms -- unlike his mother, his father smelled faintly of cigarettes and chamomile tea, both of which he consumed regularly.

"Good night, Scorpius," his father said as he crouched down to his level and put his hands on either of his son's shoulders. "I know I say this too frequently for your liking, but you make me proud to be your father every day. Sleep well."

His father had always made a point of showing affection for Scorpius, and Scorpius knew why (though he would wager his father didn't). Grandfather Lucius had always treated his son more like a diplomat than a child, and he was trying to make up for the lack of paternal care by focusing it all on Scorpius -- the care that he never really got.

Scorpius considered himself quite the armchair psychologist.

He smiled at his father and said, "I've learned to deal with your platitudes, Father. Good night."

He turned on a heel and headed out of the dining room and into the narrow foyer. He rounded the corner and started up the steps leading to the hallway. At the very end was a tall, oak door with a sign of his own design, reading "all hope abandon, ye who enter here" (a not-so-subtle nod to his fondness of Dante's _Inferno_). It looked remarkably little like hell, however, with a large bed, an armoire, a desk and books on every available surface. A large window overlooked the front yard and the door to a small bathroom was slightly ajar.

Upon heading up to the armoire and knocking twice, the large oak fixture gave a mighty shudder and sigh. "Oh, good evening, Scorpius," said the armoire. "Pyjamas?"

"If you would be so kind, Jillian."

"Coming right up," replied Jillian the armoire, who opened her front doors and flashed bright yellow. The next time he looked down, Scorpius was in his usual black silk pyjamas. He looked back up and smiled.

"Thank you. Good night, Jillian."

"Good night, dear."


	3. III

He awoke early the next morning to his mother's knocking.

"Time to get up!" he heard her say as he rose up through the various levels of consciousness. "We should try to beat the morning rush."

He groaned and rolled onto his stomach, pulling a pillow over his head in a valiant attempt to block out the sound. The morning rush, as far as he was concerned, could go to hell.

"_Allez, allez,_" she chirped. "Your breakfast is waiting for you downstairs."

Breakfast could go to hell, too.

Eventually, however, Scorpius pulled himself out of bed and dressed, leaving him just enough time to stuff a croissant into his mouth before he was ushered into the den.

"I was thinking we could stop at Madame Malkin's first," his mother said as she pulled the small china pot off the mantelpiece.

Scorpius started. "Madame Malkin's? But that's in Diagon Alley -- didn't you say last night that we'd be going to the _Champs aux Sorcières_?"

"Your father spoke out against that at the last moment," said his mother with a delicate roll of her eyes. "_Incendio._"

The hearth suddenly roared to life, and once she put her wand away, she pulled the top off the china to take a handful of Floo powder, which she tossed into the hearth. From the bottom up, the flames turned bright green. "There. Go ahead, now, you first."

Sometimes, Scorpius thought, his mother had a remarkable lack of backbone. Still, though, he headed past her, directly into the jade green flames, where one sharp, "Diagon Alley!" sent him swirling fiercely out of his home.

When he came to, he stepped into the main floor of Flourish & Blotts, alive with bustling people and chatter from all angles. He brushed the soot off his cloak, only noticing the all-too-familiar scent of fresh books after the ash had settled.

Flourish & Blotts was his favourite shop on Diagon Alley, mostly because he preferred the company of books over the company of people. He'd come here so often when he was younger that the employees knew him by name, and he'd gone through half their stock. They always joked that once out of school, he'd become an employee (and honestly, Scorpius wasn't completely averse to the idea).

As he was peering around the corner, looking for the new release display, he heard the rushing noise of his mother appearing in the hearth behind him. He turned in time to see her gliding out from underneath the mantle, positively radiating. Between her Veela blood and her dazzling smile, she had already drawn several stares from other patrons.

"Ready to go?" she asked.

"Not just yet, Mum; I want to see what new releases are out--"

"No," his mother cut him off. "Not after your little reading binge last year. You nearly bought us out of house and home."

"Oh, but Mum--!"

"_No,_" she repeated. "Now come on, let's go to Madame Malkin's."

He heaved a great and dramatic sigh as his mother swept him towards the door (though he still managed to get a peek at the new release display only to discover that his favourite wizard author, Lawrence Valentine, had come out with a new book, of which he made a mental note to buy). Outside, the streets of Diagon Alley were just as if not more crowded that inside the bookshop, except outside it was hotter. The sweltering August sun beat down mercilessly, and all around him Scorpius could see witches and wizards with pale blue cooling charms hovering over their heads and blowing air down their front, not that it did much.

They wove their way through the crowds, eager to get out of the heat, heading for the short building with a moving female mannequin doing poses in the window. A bell jingled as they entered and a cool rush of air pushed its way past them. He watched his mother's hair toss back across her shoulders and away from her face, allowing her to get a better look around the room. It was far less crowded that Flourish & Blotts, with a wide and sprawling front room complete more moving mannequins like the one in the window. A handsome young tailor was behind the desk, scribbling away at a parchment. When he looked up at them, his quill nearly fell out of his hand.

"I, uh--" he stammered, "--can I, uh, help you?"

"Yes, dear; could you please have my son, here, fitted for his school uniform?" his mother asked as she breezed across the room. The tailor gave a brief glance to Scorpius before his gaze went right back to his mother.

"Of course, ma'am, anything," he said. "I'll, uh -- I'll go get Madame Malkin for you."

But he didn't move. In fact, he didn't even look away from her for a few long moments.

His mother sighed. "Zeal is a virtue, dear," she drawled. Scorpius knew she was all too used to random strangers staring at her, and this, she'd found, was the politest way of saying 'Please get to work'.

The tailor seemed to be jerked out of his stupor. "Right," he murmured, blushing almost imperceptibly, "sorry."

With that, he shuffled off towards the attached room. Through the arch, Scorpius saw another young man with black hair being fitted by a younger seamstress. She was hemming his left sleeve when he looked up and saw Scorpius.

He met his eyes fearlessly, curiously watching him as the boy watched back. From his distance, Scorpius couldn't make out the subtleties of his face, but he could see that he was roughly Scorpius's age, with an average build and height. Perhaps what he found even more curious was that the other boy wasn't looking away, which either meant he was very brave or very naïve.

It wasn't long before he was swept off towards that back room by another tailor and being arranged on a small box next to the boy.

He gave him a sideways glance.

"Hullo," the boy said. Now that he was in arm's reach, Scorpius could see a very faint dusting of freckles across his face.

"Hello," Scorpius replied.

"Hogwarts?" he guessed as the tailor threw a large black robe over Scorpius's head.

"Apparently."

"What's your name?"

"Scorpius. Scorpius Malfoy."

"Pleasure. I'm Al Potter."

They shook hands.

"Funny," said Al Potter, "usually by this time, people are asking me if I've any relation to Harry Potter."

"I could say the same," Scorpius pointed out. "By now, most have asked if I'm part-Veela or not."

"Are you?"

"You first."

"Yeah," Al answered, "he's my dad."

"Ah. Well, I'm one-eighth Veela on my mother's side."

Al gave a hum, followed by a nod. Scorpius could detect a hint of a smile on his face, but he didn't mention it.

"What house do you reckon you'll be in?" Al asked curiously.

"Probably Slytherin, like my f-- _ow!_ Watch where you're sticking those things!"

"Sorry, sorry," babbled the seamstress from her position on the floor, where she was hemming his robes.

"Slytherin? Cool. I imagine I'll be in Gryffindor, myself," he said. "You're pretty nice for a Slytherin."

"You're pretty dense for a Gryffindor," Scorpius countered.

He laughed. "Touché."

Suddenly, a new figure came bustling in, all black hair and green robes. He had a box under one arm and was looking through a copy of the _Daily Prophet_.

"Al, I think I found the perfect set of scales for you," he said as he wound blindly around the racks of robes and piles of sewing paraphernalia. "I saw it in the window at--"

But right as he was about to finish his sentence, he looked up and saw Scorpius, which apparently caused him to falter in his steps. Al, mildly, introduced them:

"Dad, this is Scorpius. He's going to Hogwarts, too. Scorpius, this is my dad."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Potter," Scorpius said with a nod of his head.

"Scorpius," Al's father muttered. "Scorpius Malfoy?"

One of his eyebrows arched slightly higher than the other. "Yes," he said.

Mr. Potter swallowed, then managed a hoarse laugh. "You, ah -- you look remarkably like your father."

"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you somehow know my father," Scorpius drawled, "so I'll respond with the expected: Thank you, I get that all the time."

"You've got his wit, too," Mr. Potter pointed out, looking slightly uncomfortable.

Like his son, Mr. Potter was tall and lean, with jet black hair. In fact, save his height, age and eyes, he could have been mistaken for his twin. He looked impressive yet not overpowering in his jade-coloured robes.

"_Pour l'amour de Dieu !_" cried a familiar voice, before launching off into a long stream of very impolite French. His mother was storming into the back room with a furious expression, ranting angrily under her breath. Scorpius could only make out bits and pieces of it, mostly because his mother had the uncanny ability to speak at supersonic speeds when angry. He graciously cut her off:

"Mother," he said, "we're in English-speaking company."

Upon hearing her son, she cleared her throat delicately and straightened, brushing invisible specks of lint from her robe. "My apologies," she said, turning on one heel towards Mr. Potter. "I didn't realise we-- oh!"

For a few moments, his mother and Mr. Potter stared wordlessly at each other. Scorpius looked back and forth between them as the silence stretched over a few seconds.

"Gabrielle?" asked Mr. Potter finally, looking dumbstruck.

"Harry!" she replied, a long-awaited smile finally appearing on her face. "My God, it's been so long! What, it must have been--"

"--over twenty years, I know," he said.

"I wasn't aware you two were acquainted," Scorpius interjected.

"We met at Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament," his mother said, the smile on her face lighting up the room. "He saved my life, you know."

Mr. Potter laughed nervously. "I -- anyone with a conscience would have done the same in that situation. So you married--?"

"Draco, yes," she answered with a fervent nod. "He proposed a few years after leaving Hogwarts, after we met again by chance in Paris."

"Wow," Mr. Potter said. "I can't say I saw that coming."

She laughed and it sounded like silver bells. "It's rarely easy to predict, is it? But it's _lovely_ to see you again -- you really must drop by and visit us sometime!"

"I... I, well..."

Mr. Potter looked between the other three people in the room for a few moments.

"I... don't see why not," he finished.

His mother clapped her hands together delightedly. "That's marvellous! Why not come over tomorrow? You can bring your whole family if you want; we'll have dinner."

"I'll have to ask Ginny about it, but I can't see why that would be a problem."

As she began to rattle off the Apparation coordinates, Scorpius's attention span waned. He glanced across the back room again, over the racks of various coloured robes and other articles of clothing, until his attention was drawn:

"It's always weird when you realise your parents have friends, isn't it?"

Only when Scorpius turned toward the source of the noise did he see that it was Al who'd spoken.

He grinned back at him. "Always weird when you realise your parents have _lives_, you mean."

Al chuckled and said, "You could put it that way."

"You're all done, dear," said the seamstress who'd apparently just finished hemming Al's sleeves. "Free to go."

He wriggled out of the robe as it was pulled over his head and hopped of the stool on which he'd been placed. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," Al said with another glance towards his father. "Good luck trying to get my little sister to eat anything. She's finicky."

"Come on, Al," said Mr. Potter before Scorpius could reply. "Let's get going. We need to buy your potion ingredients."

Scorpius just smiled. "Bye."

Al hurried off to catch up with his father who was already halfway to the door. His mother came sweeping up towards him, positively radiant.

"That was nice seeing them, wasn't it?" she sang. "His son is _très mignon_."

"I suppose," Scorpius said.

When the seamstress finished hemming his robes, his mother paid and ushered him off to Ollivander's. The door jingled as they entered, and promptly, they were assaulted with the scent of dust and old leather. Scorpius glanced with a dull curiosity around the ornate decorations and various wand-maintenance products -- it wasn't the nicest store he'd ever seen, but it certainly was the most interesting.

"May I help you?" asked a voice from the other side of the shop. It was a distinctly feminine and distinctly alto, with a rough edge that came only from years of smoking. When Scorpius turned towards the source, he saw a thirty-something woman, her hair held in a long brown braid down her back. She was wearing a pair of thin spectacles and a no-nonsense expression. His mother, having been told to expect a ninety-something man with silver hair, looked mildly worried.

"I presume you aren't Mr. Ollivander?"

She shook her head. "He's my father, and he's not feeling well, so I can help you. My name is Gail Thorne."

"Ah," his mother said, her mood changing again, "my son, Scorpius, here, is coming for his first wand." She put both hands on his shoulders, gushing motherly pride.

Gail Thorne looked down at him and wrinkled her nose. "He's going to Hogwarts?"

"That's correct," she chirped.

Mrs. Thorne crossed her arms over her chest. "They're letting anyone in these days," she said disparagingly.

His mother's smile was wiped off her face in an instant.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Scorpius said in a low voice.

"I see no reason at all to sell a wand to a non-wizard," said Mrs. Thorne.

"Non-wizard!" he cried.

"Mrs. Thorne, please," his mother pleaded quietly. "He _is_ a wizard, and he needs a wand if he is to attend school."

"We don't sell to _half-breeds_."

Scorpius felt a sensation of fire that started in his stomach and consumed him. He stepped toward her, glaring. "How _dare_ you, madam!" he said. "I have magic as much as any wizard and if I intend to channel, I need a wand!"

"I reserve the right," Mrs. Thorne said, "to refuse a sale."

"This is preposterous!" Scorpius riled.

"Scorpius, _partons_," his mother whispered.

"Mother, you can't be--"

"_Partons !_" she repeated, more loudly. "We'll get your wand on the _Champs_ tomorrow, along with your owl. I knew it was a bad idea to come here."

Furious, Scorpius had to be forcibly marched out of the store and, promptly, out of Diagon Alley.


End file.
